


Grass Below You, Sky Above

by Iambic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Outdoor Sex, first of may
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3857854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An expedition through the Emerald Graves ends up giving them some free time. The Bull and Dorian, as is their wont, put it to good use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grass Below You, Sky Above

**Author's Note:**

> [Happy May, everyone!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCbD8nsxcd8) I am sure several people have made this reference before, and will again, but, you know, tradition and all.
> 
> Thank you to all the friends who suffered through my excited ranting about "working title snakes in the grass." This one's for you.

In the Emerald Groves, the days are busy and the nights silent. They explore the woods with less urgency than usual, their Inquisitor staring up at trees and ruins with the awe befitting a Dalish elf in the old homeland. The forest is beautiful, its dappled light and its soft grass and moss, the occasional grove of prophet’s laurel and the rush of the river. Forgiving to their trespass.

They make camp with some of the scouts above a meadow dotted with more of the prophet’s laurel, pretty as a picture. It’s barely afternoon, but their most recent encounter with a great bear had left Varric with a nasty gash on one arm and Dorian plain out of lyrium potions. Maeve gives them the afternoon free. They’ve all traveled hard, fought harder, and with the Freemen cleared from Argon’s Watch, there’s safety enough for a rest. They eat, travel fare, though there’ll no doubt be fresh meat in the evening. Dorian’s content enough to wait. Simply having a pause to catch his breath is more than luxurious, these days.

He feels more than hears the step behind him, but Dorian doesn’t jump when the Bull’s hand finds the back of his neck, or tugs the collar of his shirt, or strokes fingers from below that collar to his hair. “Dorian,” says the Bull, slow and lazy, and Dorian’s whole head tingles pleasantly with the sensation of tiny lightning.

Closing his eyes, he leans into the touch, feels the air of the Bull’s laughter and the pull of the Bull’s hand rising to tangle in his hair. He pulls Dorian’s head to the right, just barely, and Dorian takes a sharp breath in.

“Got anywhere to be?” This time the Bull speaks right into Dorian’s ear, and Maker, he knows exactly he’s doing. Back in either of their rooms at Skyhold, Dorian would be far louder at just this soft a touch, but they are in camp, so all Dorian can do is bite his lip and focus on even breaths in, steady breaths out.

Another camp like this, months ago, the same question would’ve had him shouting and stalking away, but Dorian finds he prefers the present situation by far. “If you had asked me a few scant seconds ago, my afternoon would have been wide open. However, it seems I have been scheduled to be hauled off by some depraved Qunari mercenary captain, during which time he will no doubt have his filthy way with me.”

“I’ll show you wide open,” says the Bull, giving Dorian’s hair another quick tug before releasing him. “Actually, I think you’re gonna be showing me.”

Dorian finally turns around to meet the Bull’s satisfied grin. At one point that very grin would have sent him into a fit. Now… still a fit, perhaps, but of an entirely different sort. And they both know it, which makes the whole situation that much more compelling, so that Dorian’s full body starts slowly to buzz in tandem with the continued tingling across his scalp and the back of his neck, where the Bull’s fingers had touched.

“Promises, promises,” Dorian says, and lets the Bull lead him away from the campsite, around the side of another hill, until they find a suitable perch against the slope, lined with grass and delightfully open to the sun. The Bull lays him down and straddles him, leans down to kiss him, languorous, forearms bracketing Dorian’s head for the illusion of pinning just as much as balance.

After a southern winter and the slow thaw of spring, the approach to summer feels practically mild in comparison, and here the sun warms Dorian’s face and the leather undercoat of his battle robes. The Bull, too, warms him, both with his own radiating body heat and the kiss he’s gradually deepening, edging out of sweet and toward searing. When he pulls away to survey his handiwork -- and wasn’t that a strange conceit, when Dorian had first encountered it -- Dorian finds himself gasping for air.

“Gotta say, you’re even hotter like this,” the Bull says, rearranging his arms so one supports by the elbow, leaving the hand free to card through Dorian’s hair again. “Totally relaxed, lips all swollen like that--” here he punctuates with a kiss more forceful than before, biting on Dorian’s lower lip and pulling it with him for just a moment as he raises his face-- “and knowing that’s all my work--”

Dorian cuts him off by reaching up for his horns, pulling him back down to kiss him again. This time there’s no gentle lead-up, because Dorian lacks the patience or the restraint to hold back. He invites the Bull’s tongue, mouth wide open to match the Bull’s as best he can, warm and wet like a summer in Qarinus.

It’s not often they have the time and the space to take it slow like this in the field. Hard travel and long days consume most of their energy, and thin tents do little to muffle their noises. It’s hurried mouths and hands in the dark, then, if at all. Mostly they just curl together and fall asleep. Dorian had lain awake too long the first few times, adrenaline holding sleep at bay, but then the Bull caught him at it and soothed him with heavy hands. Thereafter the heat of another body and the strange new sensation of being held for holding’s sake became a comfort, and Dorian would fall asleep all the sooner for it.

But today they’ve got the sun on their side, and the Bull leans back to attend to the buckles of Dorian’s robes, pulling Dorian up with him. Apparently he still needs his sight to open them, so Dorian mouths around the side of his jaw, up the crags of his scarred face, and shivers when the Bull pulls away only to graze his teeth against Dorian’s throat.

“Hold still a minute,” he says into Dorian’s skin, and Dorian’s breath hitches. The roughness of his voice and his accent certainly help, but there’s a kind of intent that the Bull affects times like these, that makes anything sound a sultry promise. Dorian can anticipate it but being on the receiving end hasn’t yet lost its effect on him. The Bull lowers his face to use his mouth to tug a particularly stiff buckle loose, and Dorian feels no desire to restrain the low keen this sight tugs from his throat. When the Bull responds it is with a quiet rumble and and an unnecessary pull on the freed leather fastening with his teeth.

The cloth stole gets laid out beside them, but the Bull doesn’t make to remove Dorian’s jacket, just to bare his chest. “Let me take my time with you,” he says, and Dorian nods, lightheaded and hazy with it already. The Bull grins and leans forward again to brush their wet lips together briefly before wandering back down again. He drags his open mouth down the curve of Dorian’s lips, to catch on the stubble at Dorian’s jaw, and then down to the throat. With teeth and lips he teases the blood to the surface where he’d swiped his teeth before. Braced on his elbows against the hill again, he takes Dorian’s hands with his own and holds them just above Dorian’s head.

“Not gonna make me work for it today, then?” he says, but he doesn’t sound too disappointed.

Dorian laughs, more breath than voice. “What do you think you’re doing right now?”

“Point taken.” The Bull returns to the task at hand, leaves tingling bruises that trail down to one nipple which the Bull teases with his teeth before biting down, keeps Dorian’s hands braced through the jolt that runs through him.

Another memory: one of many evenings, one drink shy of tipsy, they’d made it all the way to the Bull’s bed and the Bull had pressed him down then much like he’s pressing Dorian down now. And of course Dorian had come apart then as he comes apart now, but a sharp thought had cut through the pleasure. Another night, he’d thought, another fuck, and again the Bull wouldn’t accept his touches. He would get off, of course. Dorian loved being fucked far too much to avoid that. But doubt led to hurt, and hurt led to anger, and anger led to guilt after the only night they had both called _katoh_.

The doubt and all it entailed gradually smoothed away through a great many long talks and tense, painful nights. These days the Bull’s intent is clear to him, the same kind of satisfaction with his work and arousal at its reception that Dorian gets from the Bull’s cock in his mouth. It’s not a new concept, that sometimes the best way to give is to receive -- but he hadn’t fucked a man he felt the need to give to in a long, long time.

So Dorian submits, now as ever, and gives the Bull his response with his voice and the unrestrained movement of his body where the Bull plays upon it. Arches his back as the Bull bites at his other nipple, shudders at the rush of breath through the hair on his chest, moans when the Bull brings his face back up to kiss Dorian, maddeningly slow, on the mouth again.

Dorian closes his eyes and listens to the Bull’s breathing, feels the Bull’s rough chin and chapped lips, and then weight of his hands. Exhales sharply when the Bull lowers his hips to press down against him. Arches his back higher to press up tighter. The Bull laughs, low and breathy, pulling out from the kiss. A loss of sensation. Dorian opens his eyes again.

“Hey,” says the Bull, “what do you want?”

Time was he’d never ask that question, only _what do you need_. It had been overwhelming -- no one else had ever asked Dorian that, as if sex were something essential, something significant. As if it were supposed to satisfy something other than his libido.

But Dorian had taught the Bull something, by asking what he wanted, leaving him dumbfounded with Dorian’s cock hanging halfway out of his mouth. _This is what I need_ , he’d said, but Dorian had leaned forward, pulling his face up so they faced each other eye to eyes. _I didn’t ask what you needed_ , Dorian had said. _Sometimes it can just be what you want._

“I want to take you apart,” Dorian says, now. “Or for you to fall apart while you take me. Either way works.”

He gets a raise of the Bull’s uncovered eyebrow for that. “Plenty of ways to make that happen.”

Dorian rolls his hips, slowly, to watch the Bull’s face tighten and relax. “Then I want you to fuck my face.”

“Shit, Dorian,” says the Bull. He sits back to attend to his belt, and with hands free Dorian pushes himself up against the hill and keeps moving his hips, the Bull swearing and fumbling with the fastenings. “I never get tired of hearing you say that,” he adds, finally tossing the belt aside. He has to sit up in order to get his trousers off, so Dorian follows him up and beats him to it, skimming fingers against the skin just below the waistband before dragging the faded fabric down, smoothing his hands down the Bull’s thighs. He shucks off the rest of his jacket and shirt while the Bull stands up to remove the rest of his legs from their usual atrocity of a garment. Dorian then reaches up, just to feel the weight of the Bull’s stiffened cock.

“I never get tired of _this_ ,” Dorian replies, and the Bull throws his head back to laugh.

“You won’t get any complaints from me,” says the Bull. He leans forward to shift his cock across Dorian’s open palm. “Want me on top of you or standing or what?”

Dorian bites his lower lip. There’s several options, and merit to each: the Bull on top of him is an added restraint as well as giving him the best angle to actually fuck Dorian’s mouth, but standing would better allow Dorian ability to take the Bull’s whole cock into his mouth and throat, and let the Bull actually watch him. Having the Bull lying down against the hill would also do the trick, but the angle wouldn’t give the Bull much leeway to thrust into Dorian’s mouth, which is the goal of this venture anyway.

It really comes down to one question, which Dorian will have to delegate. He gets up on his knees to wrap his free right hand around the Bull’s hip, and lean his head forward, just an inch away from the Bull’s cock. “Would you prefer to see my face?” He looks up, through his eyelashes, to the Bull’s parted lips and avid stare. “Or would you rather fuck me into the ground?”

“Hey, there’s always time for that later,” the Bull quips, but his voice husks. He’s smiling now, but hasn’t regained his composure beyond that. His hand comes forward to comb through Dorian’s hair. “C’mere.”

He takes the hand that Dorian had under his cock, and pulls Dorian forward by it, backing them up against the tree just downhill of them -- out of the sun, but something for the Bull to lean back against. Dorian kneels before him, sitting on his own ankles, hands on the Bull’s thighs. He catches the Bull’s eye again, far above him now.

“Don’t hold back,” Dorian says, and then rises to his knees to take the dark head of the Bull’s cock into his mouth.

Practice has made this part easy, opening his jaw wide enough not to scrape the Bull too much against his teeth. He strokes with his lips, teases with his tongue, and the Bull’s low grunts and sharp breaths go straight to Dorian’s own cock, still held in place by his pants. He’s going to take his time, because now he’s really planning to make the Bull work for it. After a few moments that he doesn’t count, Dorian shifts his hands around take hold of the Bull’s ass, and the Bull laughs again but pushes his hips forward for Dorian’s better access. Too slowly, Dorian takes the Bull further into his mouth, sucks as he pulls back, takes a little more. The Bull’s hand combs through Dorian’s hair but stops this time, still tangled.

Sometimes Dorian will swallow him whole, just for the effect, or because he wants it fast and hard, and it’s tempting to do that now. But the afternoon feels slow and lazy around them, spring-warm, and there’s nowhere to go and no need to rush. No, he’ll take his time, knees in the grass, sliding his mouth up and down, feeling the tremors of the Bull’s skin.

“Fuck,” says the Bull, when he’s filled Dorian’s mouth to the top of Dorian’s throat. His hand tightens in Dorian’s hair. “You take it so far--”

Dorian relaxes his throat and surges up to take the rest, moaning at the thrill of it and the way he can’t breathe for a moment. He swallows once, twice, and then eases back completely, resting the Bull’s cock against swollen lips. “I think I told you to fuck my face, Bull,” he says, every syllable brushing the tip, tasting brine. “I’m unimpressed so far.”

“Thought I’d let you finish the show.” The Bull smiles, wicked, down at him, and the pulls of his hair is all the warning Dorian gets before he’s yanked forward, mouth filled once again. The Bull pulls him back before he can open his throat, and he moans again as the Bull presses his hips forward this time, unhurried, holding Dorian in place. That’s the rhythm he takes, pulling Dorian forward while thrusting into him. The sounds Dorian makes become uncontrolled, loud, needy; he lets them, because the Bull always loves it, and because anyone who hears them can simply deal with it.

With each time the Bull hits the back of his throat, Dorian feels himself supporting himself less and less, until he has to bring his hands back around to prop himself up against the Bull’s thighs again. It’s all that’s keeping him from touching himself. His own cock aches, hanging in limbo, but the desperation he swallow the taste of the Bull’s precome and the smells of sex and sweat and skin. He can’t move himself against the Bull’s cock, but the Bull does it for him, and Dorian shudders without cease, until--

The sound of movement, the skittering of stone. The Bull drops his hand, but it takes a few seconds for Dorian to think of pulling himself free. He has to sit back in the ground and lean against the Bull’s shins instead.

“You heard that?” The Bull’s whispering, and bending his knees to take Dorian’s shoulder, to help him to sit up.

Dorian has to swallow a few times, first to prevent a cough, second to empty his mouth of saliva, before speaking. “I did,” he manages. “Freemen?”

The Bull scans around the hill, the ground below them -- for the source of the sound, or maybe an improvised weapon. “Can’t be red templars. The steps are too careful for that.”

Only one of them is wearing anything, and Dorian’s out of his armor anyway. He could always set fire to an enemy from afar, but the Freemen have halfway-decent armor sometimes. It might take too long. They could run back to camp and face the embarrassment -- or at least, Dorian would, while the Bull would look back and laugh once the battle ended.

They hold position, frozen in place. Dorian has to remind himself to breath. There’s another sound of stones disturbed, and then--

“You’re fucking kidding me,” says the Bull, groaning.

Dorian, composure finally regained, stands up and shoves at his chest. “I cannot _believe_ you took your cock out of my mouth for a _nug_.”

The Bull just laughs, catching Dorian’s hands so that they’re pressed together. A cool breeze grazes his back, and Dorian considers with growing interest their previous location, nearer the top of the hill, in the sun. On the other hand… “Please feel free to correct the situation.”

“I did say I’d fuck you into the hillside,” the Bull replies, and hums to himself for a moment. “Not gonna say no to fucking your mouth again, but since we stopped and all.”

It’s a tempting prospect. Dorian decides it’s the acceptable sort of temptation. “Two conditions,” he says. “One, you fuck me in the sun, and two, you put something else in my mouth. Your fingers would do nicely.”

The Bull grins at him. “You drive a hard bargain.” And then he picks Dorian up, bridal style, as effortlessly as he might one of their bedrolls. Dorian could complain, but it’s hardly an unpleasant position, and really, as much as he protested initially, he does truly love being tossed around and manhandled.

This time, though, the Bull lays him gently down on the grass, out of the shade of their tree. Dorian waits for the weight of him, but Bull’s got the better idea of undressing Dorian the rest of the way. It’s chilly, being completely naked, but the sun quickly takes care of that, and the Bull’s hands holding his legs up.

“Think I want you on your knees first,” says the Bull, kneading Dorian’s hamstrings, bending down to kiss one knee. “Arms on the ground. Get you loose like that.” He drops the knee he kissed, gently squeezes Dorian’s cock and his balls, but takes his hand away before Dorian can react further than a hitch in his breath. “Turn over for me, kadan.”

Dorian turns over. It’s not the kind of command they need a safeword for, but he can still obey a request. He doesn’t always. Maybe later, if they go a second round in the evening, maybe then he’ll twist away and hold his ground so the Bull has to make him do as he’s told, and that’s always fun. For now, Dorian rests on arms and knees and the scent of crushed grass, and lets the Bull’s hands roam over him, warm, gentle.

They leave him, suddenly, and Dorian turns around, indignant, only to find the Bull rummaging through the pocket of his discarded trousers. He emerges with a familiar vial.

“Do that spell of yours,” he says, but Dorian’s already a step ahead. Cleaning’s pretty basic, even within a tight space -- so to speak -- and the flick of his fingers is entirely for dramatic effect. Not everyone Dorian’s fucked has been too concerned about the mess, and certainly not the Bull, but there are limits and Dorian has always been firm about this one. And this way they don’t have to worry about cleaning the Bull’s fingers afterward. Another benefit to fucking a mage, clearly.

The Bull coats the fingers of one hand, then pushes Dorian’s head down, leaving his hand on Dorian’s neck. Only a casual weight. Dorian feels, rather than sees, the Bull run the side of his oiled hand through the cleft of Dorian’s arse, fingers rubbing that hole just below Dorian’s tailbone, then passing by. He strokes the perineum, then draws his hand back up -- coating Dorian as well, of course. The Bull’s turn to drag it out. This doesn’t stop Dorian from pushing back against the Bull’s hand, and he does it again after the Bull laughs, just to make a point.

“Don’t worry,” the Bull says, “we’ll get there soon enough.”

He’s just as slow and deliberate as Dorian had been, earlier -- one finger barely nudging him open, retreating, returning. There’s no satisfaction of being filled yet, but the Bull’s hands on him, the left for pressure, the right for pleasure, that’s enough for now. The feeling of being held. The absence of urgency. Dorian raises his eyes to look to the trees beyond their hill, all dappled in sunlight, and fills the quiet with his own voice.

One finger once pressed all the way in becomes two, a lazy drag, and the Bull hums again in appreciation as Dorian writhes helplessly against it. “So patient,” the Bull tells him, “so good,” and he makes small circles inside Dorian, to stretch. To loosen. Dorian’s cock, once again, goes unnoticed, but there’s time for that, too.

Time passes unmeasured, and then the Bull pulls his fingers away and doesn’t return them. Dorian whimpers despite himself, even though he knows what’s to come. He lifts himself up on his arms enough to turn his head, to watch the Bull coat himself with steady pumps. Their eyes meet. The Bull’s face softens, and he smiles, and so Dorian smiles helplessly back.

“I got you,” says the Bull.

“You do,” Dorian replies.

The Bull pushes his cock in, much in the same unhurried way of his fingers, and Dorian breathes out a moan and sinks his shoulders and head back to the ground. There’s no force to it yet, but the Bull grips him with one oily hand and slides the other, the two-fingered one, around to Dorian’s throat, up the artery to Dorian’s jaw. He presses his fingers to Dorian’s lower lip, and when Dorian opens his mouth, leans forward enough to swipe them against Dorian’s teeth.

“I’m gonna turn you around soon,” the Bull says, soft in Dorian’s ear, rolling his hips with another slow thrust. “Then I’ll fuck your mouth properly. Just hold on for now.”

Dorian holds on. The Bull is fucking him, at any rate, and even with preparation it’s still the same delightfully tight fit. And there’s the Bull’s breath against his spine, the fingers splayed out at his jaw, the Bull’s other hand holding his hips up and stroking the joining of leg and abdomen. The soft mingling of their voices.

And the Bull does pause for Dorian to turn over, and to arrange Dorian’s ankles over his wide shoulders, a quick grin on his face. Dorian holds on again, but to the Bull’s horns this time. When the Bull pushes back into him it’s with more force than before, and Dorian’s breath catches, canting his hips forward too late. The Bull leans down enough to press his lower back into the ground, holding him in place with a hand on his stomach, returning the same fingers as before to his lips. This time, when Dorian lets them in, the Bull does not hold back.

The Bull fucks the breath out of him. The weight of his shoulders holds Dorian in place, fucked into the hillside as promised, and so the Bull’s free hand wanders, up to twist a nipple, down just to barely stroke the base of Dorian’s cock. It’s still enough for Dorian to cry out, having been denied the touch so long, and the Bull brings the hand back up to stroke his chest, soothe him. All the time the Bull’s hand and his hips thrust in rhythm. Dorian holds on and gives himself to it, the strain and the gasping. The full-body warmth of feeling the Bull shudder above him, breathing his name.

“Touch me,” Dorian says, as if the Bull is not already, but the words do their job. The Bull groans, low in his belly, and brings his hand back to Dorian’s cock. He holds it loosely, but the motions of rocking in and out of Dorian provides the friction. Dorian lets himself voice the need that floods his throat, just to see it hit the Bull’s face, and and to feel the one urgent shove before the Bull finds his pace again. To watch him fall apart.

It doesn’t take much longer for Dorian to come. He makes a show of it, sucking the Bull’s fingers into his mouth to the base of the Bull’s hand, yanking himself up by the Bull’s horns, arching his back, moaning louder than he might have. That’s what breaks the Bull, who abandons his rhythm and slams into Dorian with the force Dorian loves, the wet sounds of penetration and his hoarse gasps, the smell of sex and sweat and grass stronger in Dorian’s nose. He feels boneless in the Bull’s hands. Face wet and shivering, he keeps his eyes trained on the Bull’s one, because that’s what truly gets to the Bull, and when the Bull bottoms out with his own cry, Dorian surges up to kiss him.

They’re left a mess, of course, and at some point Dorian is going to insist they do something about it -- but not immediately. The Bull flips onto his back, and pulls Dorian on top of him, and Dorian traces patterns on the places often covered by vitaar, and the Bull strokes his back.

“Could stand to do this more often,” the Bull says, after a while, and Dorian lifts his head to smile.

“You’ll have to take it up with Corypheus,” he replies -- but he thinks on it, the days that could follow the war. More lazy afternoons. Feeling the Bull relaxed, above him, beneath him, at his side. The only threat of interruption an erstwhile nug. The air, suffused with spring. Yes, Dorian thinks, leaning forward for another kiss. He could stand for more days like this.


End file.
